


Sanguine

by OwlEspresso



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Biting, F/M, Vampire Bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/OwlEspresso
Summary: “Oh, you? Well, you’re my favorite,” he replies with smooth ease, his voice dipping down to a sultry purr. The grass shifts and crunches underneath him as he shifts to lean over you, fixing you with a wry smile. All too soon, you’re reminded of a few nights ago, him hunched over your neck, eyes alight like a predator perched to strike.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 113





	Sanguine

**Author's Note:**

> Also on my tumblr, which can be found here: https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/post/635875745536835585/glad-your-requests-are-open-again-could-i-get

The grass is dulled with the first touches of winter. It’s only a week into the lifeless season, yet the temperatures have taken a nose dive. Which is why you count your blessings now, staring up at the grey skies, back nestled against the dying foliage. 

It’s going to snow, soon. The eerie swarm of clouds that hangs above the forest tells you as much, but you remain where you are, taking comfort in knowing shelter is only a few steps away.

It would be a shame to move when Astarion is seated right next to you, having plopped himself down of his own accord. You like to think it’s significant progress, given the open disdain he didn’t hesitate to show you during the first days of your travels.

He’s been rattling on about the last battle you found yourselves in, complaining at the sudden change in weather, and theorizing the parasite that’s nestled snuggly within your brains. Just jumping from one topic to the next as though he’s been bottling all these thoughts up, waiting to dump them on the first person he can trust to listen.

You have to wonder if you’re the closest person to him among your little group. Does he seek you out more than he seeks the others, or are you just imagining it? Just hoping for it?

You wrinkle your nose and try not to think about it, feel a flush of relief when he at last quiets. 

Not that you ever want him to stop speaking, not with that velvety voice of his. But you try to keep your thoughts distinctly away from your looming, seemingly inevitable fate. You try to preserve and fan the flames of your hope.

“Do you… have you ever gotten tired of it, yet?” you ask him, staring up at the harsh, grey skies. Winter’s bitter tinge has long crept across your skin and hooked its claws into your bones, even through your thick sleeves. “All of the traveling? And relying on our companions?

Astarion gives a small huff. His gaze remains stuck on the forest that stands on the other side of the brook. Its branches have been picked clean by the changing seasons. He’s thinking, you realize, about his next meal. About the next forest creature he will descend upon with teeth and daggers, about the next unsuspecting morsel he’ll prey upon.

The thought makes you swallow. Not out out fear, but something distinctly different. A warm, gooey feeling you don’t want to think about.

“Please. This is the freest I’ve been in the last two hundred years. I will gladly take the wretched swamps and mile long treks over Cazador’s dingy dungeons. Any day. In a heartbeat—someone else’s, of course, given the state of mine.”

His gaze sweeps from the cluttered horizon to sweep up and down your lounged body, lingering on the swell of your hips, the round of your chest. He studies with an open fascination that makes you want to curl up and away from him. It’s a keen intrigue, something deep-seated and predatory. Even after traveling with him for two weeks, you’re still defenseless against his low, crooning voice and hooded, sultry gazes.

“Mm,” you hum in acknowledgement, because you’re not sure what else to say to that.

“As for our merry little band of miscreants… you depend on me as much as I depend on you. It’s an even trade, as far as I’m concerned,” he waves off your concerns with little to no concern, bringing a knee to his chest whilst the other leg remains stretched out in front of him. “And if you’re worried about my personal opinion on you all as individuals... well, let’s just say I have my favorites.”

“And where do I fall on your list?” you can’t help but ask before you think it through, genuinely curious rather than teasing. You can see your breath in the air, your words coming out as a frosty plume. The words come out without thinking, and for a brief moment you internally panic. Heat rises to your cheeks as you struggle for the words to walk it back. 

“Oh, you? Well, you’re my favorite,” he replies with smooth ease, his voice dipping down to a sultry purr. The grass shifts and crunches underneath him as he shifts to lean over you, fixing you with a wry smile. All too soon, you’re reminded of a few nights ago, him hunched over your neck, eyes alight like a predator perched to strike. The now nearly faded marks on your throb with the memory. His handsome profile, lit softly by firelight. 

“Really?” 

“Of course. No one else in our merry little band has offered themselves up on a silver platter. I’m quite sure they would balk at the idea of feeding a vampire. I can think of a few who would come at me with a stake as soon as I revealed my true nature,” he sighs languidly, a hand reaching down to cup your cheek. His palm is cold against your skin, but your breath hitches and you shut your eyes, allowing him to nudge your face to the side, revealing the stretch of your neck to him. “So pliant, too. Though I would prefer to think this aspect of your personality is reserved for me and me alone.”

“Well, I’m not going to roll over for just anyone,” you assure him with a roll of your eyes. There’s no bite in your voice, but you feel a roll of warm anticipation hit your gut when he fixes you with a keen gaze.

“Consider me flattered. And most grateful. Might I encroach upon your kindness just a tad more this afternoon?” His eyes are hooded, his smile widening because he knows you’ll agree. You exhale shakily.

“Go ahead,” you shut your eyes, brace yourself for the hook of his teeth into your waiting flesh.

“You are a delight,” he flatters shamelessly. His breath brushes against your skin, prompting goosebumps to raise along your arms. Your heart thump, thump, thumps against your ribs like a bird’s wings against the bars of its gilded cage. 

He can hear it, his eyelids lowering, smile widening as he ghosts lips across your neck. He explores slowly, drifting slow kisses from the crook of your shoulder to the curve of your jaw. Each osculation is more tender than the last, but you still sigh and shudder, shutting your eyes because you cannot bear to see his smug expression.

As cool as his skin is, it’s still warmer than the wintry air that surrounds you. One of your hands tentatively rests on his shoulder, the other rests at your side. He’s incorrigibly good with both hands and lips, fingers of his unoccupied hand giving your right breast a faint squeeze, earning a surprised splutter. 

You don’t realize your flustered expression has tinged with fear until he begins to croon at you.

“Shh, shh. It’s alright, darling,” he soothes, and voice curling with mock sympathy. “You’re doing so well, so good for me.”

Oh, fuck. That only makes it worse. Your cunt throbs, your clothes suddenly feeling too thick, too heavy. The mere anticipation of the bite is enough to make you wet, panties sticking to the plush give of your folds. The renewed shame of it mixes with heady arousal, creating a cocktail of sensations that leaves you squirming underneath him before he’s even taken a bite. 

“You know, I’m beginning to think these little whines and trembles of your are from more than just trepidation. Am I correct in that assumption?” Goddamn him and his blabbering mouth. Your eyes snap open to fix him with a glare, but he only smiles wider.

All you can do is concentrate on keeping breathing even as the very tips of his fangs drag over your skin. Each tender kiss and caress feels like it stretches beyond the span of mere moments, slipping into minutes and maybe hours. Your palms sweat, your eyes stare up at the dulled sky.

Slowly, he journeys from the line of your jaw to the middle of your neck. Once, twice, three times he grazes his sharp fangs over the same spot. Your fingers curl tight into the fabric of his jacket, thighs pressing together—

He bites. Your fingers twitch and your grip tightens, helplessly curled in the fabric of his stupid fancy shirt. The sheer cold of his fangs presses deep into the flesh of your throat, his efforts rewarded with a gush of fresh, sweet blood. This is the part you like the most, you think. The rush of the ambrosia connects the two of you in a way you’ve never experienced with another person before. He drinks deep, enjoys your very being, your very essence—

If you were less drunk off the pleasure of being torn into so intimately, perhaps you’d wonder if this is the only reason why he claims to enjoy your company so much. 

But a second squeeze to your breast robs you of that coherency. Black spots are already beginning to swim at the edges of your vision, consciousness growing hazy as he continues to indulge, gorging himself on you entirely.

“Astarion,” you find it in yourself to rasp, feebly tugging on his shirt as you feel yourself beginning to drift away, into an inky, vast blankness. You’re not sure if he’s going to stop, you realize, but what frightens you more is that you don’t entirely mind.

The thought is shoved to the very recesses of your mind as he blessedly pulls away with a gasp. His lips are stained red, and your gaze glues to his tongue as it peeks out and swipes over them. Slowly. As though he’s savoring your flavor as much as he can before he gulps the final droplets down. 

“Delectable,” he sighs, hair tousled, pupils dilated. “Are you alright, darling?”

“Feel a little funny. Nothing a snack and a nap can’t fix,” you mumble. Your arms feel like jelly as you press them to the frosted earth, feebly attempting to lift yourself off the ground.

“Ah, ah. There’s no need to push yourself,” he tuts, pushing himself to his feet with nimble ease. A stray beam of sun dips through the clouds. It casts his hair and pale skin in a light most vibrant. Looking up at him like this allows you to admire the strong cut of his jaw, the fine arch of his nose. You’re so dazed by both fatigue and his beauty that you almost forget to take the hand he offers you.

You take it. His fingers are cold, but warmer than the chilled air around you. A harsh contrast to the warm, near fervent gaze he fixes on you as you stand beside him.


End file.
